My dad used to say that Ummi’s food was fit for royalty. He was never one to lie, so he must have been right. He was her king, and she, his queen.
When she gave birth to my brother Amal, he came out smelling of rose water and spices. More like a cake than a baby.
I will cook like Ummi when I grow up; I will make yalanji[1] and falafel and feed everyone who needs it. And Amal will be big then, so I shall teach him to wait on guests in a black suit and with a red bow tie.
But the person I really mean to tell you about is Noura.
It was me who was playing with her yesterday when she cut her leg. You know that concrete block by the dump? It bit into her knee and red oozed out, so I bandaged it up with my scarf.
I wish we could go together to the Souk[2] like we used to. Though now she can’t, and the market stalls have been destroyed.
I must get up soon because Amal always cries when he wakes hungry.
Today the window panes have gone. It was the horrid genie with his thunderbolts and nasty smell. He spat out all the glass. So it is good that there is no one else left in the building.
Noura isn’t my real sister but she was just like one and I loved her a lot. Everyone said that her eyes seemed to reflect a thousand tiny candles.
The blast in the night blew out her light when she was crushed by the ceiling, forcing her last breath too soon. I went to look and saw the grey dust settled around her like a softly, softly, thin and liquid, velvet veil.
I am glad that soon she will be covered in the long nights when I am not here.
Now Amal is awake so I must see what I can give him. I think the jar of olives is all that is left.
After we have eaten we will walk. Walk and walk until we find someone.
—
[1] Stuffed vine leaves
[2] The market
[Dedicated to the children left behind in Syria who had to fend for themselves and grow up too soon]
